#missy!thread;

It's routine at this point; all of her clients go through the same process. They succumb to the darkness, then wake up in what appears to be an empty waiting room; same clothes they died in, sans any tears or stains, injuries nonexistent. From there, they're ushered to their next destination by one of many nice young men in business suits.

Sometimes that destination is fancy, if they're someone of importance to the woman in charge. Usually, it's simply a boring little office with beige walls and a potted plant in the corner. Sometimes the worker bee escorting them gives them all the information they need. Other times, today for instance, the Time Lord is bored.

The woman rushes in, all cheery bubbly energy, a tea pot and two cups balanced precariously between two hands. Her outfit is formal yet old fashioned, the heels of her boots clicking against the tile floor. The spread of ceramic dishes is placed neatly on the desk before Shelly, followed by Missy perching herself on the edge of the desk.

"Welcome to 3W, Ms- Mrs- Well… Let's stick to first names, given the circumstances."

It seems no matter how often she changes the exterior of her TARDIS, no matter how far she travels in time, the door to door salesmen always seem to find her. She intends to tell them off when she yanks open the door; instead, standing outside her TARDIS, is the Doctor.

The training is for his own good. Etiquette is important when infiltrating other planets in disguise and, even when he tries to play nice, he slips up. Maybe that's her fault for picking their disguises the way she did; Empress of some bullshit planet she invented off the top of her head and Empress's pet who is not to speak out of turn.

They made it a few hours before she resorted to the ballgag, and he's still getting a chunk of the money they stole from the underwater palace owed by the planet's royal family. Sure, their currency doesn't exactly spend well on Earth, but it's gold. It can be melted down. It's not like she hasn't treated him nicely outside of the whole physical silencing thing.

When they return to her TARDIS, still appearing more like the interior of a spaceship than the cozy renovation later regenerations favor, she knows she's going to get an earful about all of this. So, before releasing him, she pushes him onto a black leather sofa, seated and patient. At least, he seems patient when he's still unable to speak.

Layers of her Empress disguise are peeled off, deep purple velvets and laces, lingerie remaining underneath. He listens better like this. She straddles his lap, her bare thighs grazing his own, visible due to the very short shorts she's put him in for his pet act. Face is brought in close to his throat, biting a hickey into it as the buckle at the back of his head is released. Gag is removed, cast aside on the sofa.

[continued from somewhere, i lost the link lol]

She hums in soft agreement, more focused on the feeling of the Doctor's hair beneath her fingertips than the rodents on the TV screen. This is nice. It wouldn't have been her choice of movie, but the Doctor is right about one thing; the villain has flair. They always do.

Missy brushes hair back from the Doctor's forehead, pressing a kiss to his head in its absence. He's so sickly sweet; he always has been. She'd been trying to kill him only a few decades ago, after all. Well… 'trying' to kill him. It's never quite so serious. She'll brag, she'll posture, but she knows he'll always find a way to stop her evil scheme. That's the fun of it; a game between lovers, despite the thousands of civilian casualties. You can't make an omelette without breaking a few eggs, after all.

He always forgives her. Sometimes she's grateful for it. Sometimes it makes her furious. She's of two minds; trying to push him away for his own good and trying to keep him as close as she possibly can. Maybe that's why the vault works so well to soothe her. She has no choice but to be here. He has no choice but to be here. No manipulation, no decisions to be made that are deeper than 'what Disney movie will we watch for the 500th time?' and hoping that it won't be Frozen 2 again.

When The Duke enters The Scoundrels Club, The Mistress awaits him. The club is eerily silent, not a soul in sight, save for the woman adorned all in purple. It seems she's dragged an armchair into the center of the small stage typically reserved for jazz singers and other light entertainment, where she is now perched with a fluffy white cat on her lap.

She knows he won't recognize her; they've never met, at least not in this fresh new body. He's known the Master, though, casually, for decades. As far as she can recall, she's never backstabbed him. But… her memories of past lives are still hazy. They always are so soon after a regeneration.

"Oh, well, excuse me! Next time I'll just let anyone who wanders in that door put their sticky little paws on all your bits and bobs and pointy things." She's not even dripping that much blood on the floor. It's a morgue, human carnage comes with the territory. They've got hoses for this sort of thing.

[continued from here]